


A Study in Sherlock

by HeraldInquisitor



Series: Sherlock Holmes - Retirement Years [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1920s, 221B Baker Street, Attempted Murder, Baker Street, Gen, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, London, Murder, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:44:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeraldInquisitor/pseuds/HeraldInquisitor
Summary: It's the 1920s and Sherlock Holmes is called back to London to investigate a series of murders. All the victims are women and have been bitten. Is the killer a normal man or something worse? And when Dr Watson's daughter nearly falls victim to the killer, that's when it gets personal.





	1. Back to Baker Street

In the winter of 1920 I received a letter from my good friend Sherlock Holmes. It was written in his familiar style, and read as follows,  
‘ _My dear Watson, I have received news of recent murders in London, and I intend to take up our old rooms in Baker Street once more. I will return to London in December, and send for you then, once I am settled. No case would be the same without you. I hope you will come to my side again. Yours sincerely, Sherlock Holmes.’_

I traced my fingers across his signature before putting the letter aside. I recalled all the murders that had occurred recently: Veronica Howard, Bess Jones, Mary Bannatyne and Janet Hall were the names of the victims. Police were, as usual, stumped on the matter.

It was claimed that the murderer of Mary Bannatyne was a spurned lover, though he protested his innocence of the crime. Both the press and police were being vague about the details. However, I was convinced that if anyone could shed some light on it all, then it was Sherlock Holmes.

I received my summons from Holmes on the fourth of December. I had remained at home that day with my wife instead of taking my usual walk, and at approximately three-thirty in the afternoon the maid brought in a telegram for me. It stated,  
_‘Have settled in at Baker Street. I am expecting you. S.H.’_ I excused myself from the room and was shortly ready for the visit. I took a cab and was on my way.

When I arrived at Baker Street I stood for a moment, gazing fondly at the familiar door of No.221B, before ringing the bell. I was quickly allowed in by a portly matron, who proceeded to show me to the rooms which I had once occupied with Holmes. When I entered the room, Holmes himself stood before the cheerfully blazing fireplace, with his back to me.

The room itself looked different. The furniture which had occupied the room during our stay was gone. Instead there was a mean-looking table with two chairs, a living-chair, and old-looking sofa and a gas lamp. Holmes turned to look at me.  
“Watson, you are looking well. I suppose you live fairly comfortably.”  
“Yes; how did you know?” Holmes smiled.  
“You have gained weight, yet it is not through illness, so you must eat well. Every article of clothing you are wearing is still new, although those shoes are pinching your feet. Clearly, you are well-fed and have money to spare.”  
“As always, you are correct, Holmes. We have not seen each other since the case with Van Bork.”  
“I did read your writings on that case – ‘His Last Bow’. As ever, Watson, you allowed sentimentality to get in the way of what ought to have been a good analytical piece.”  
“As I have always said, if that is how you feel, then you ought to write them yourself.”  
“I have, as a matter of fact. I have included cases from before ‘A Study in Scarlet’, during my pre-Watson era, as well as my cases with you. However, I do not mean to publish them at present. I am being a terrible host; please sit.” Holmes took the living-chair whilst I took the sofa. I noticed that he took a bottle of brandy and poured equal measures into two small glasses before handing one to myself.

“Holmes, when you wrote you mentioned the murders. Do you know anything?” I asked. Holmes took a sip of brandy before he replied,  
“I have been unable to glean any information but the basics that were reported in the press. However, after I spoke to Mr Duncan, the man who was accused of the murder of Mary Bannatyne, I knew he was not responsible for it. I tracked down his alibi, a married woman who had spent the night with Mr Duncan, and prevailed upon her to do the right thing. I secured his freedom earlier today.”  
“What of the other murders?”  
“Tomorrow I intend to pay a visit to the morgue. Will you be willing to join me?”  
“You need hardly ask, Holmes,” I replied, “Of course I shall go.” Holmes smiled, and said,  
“Meet me here again tomorrow at eight-thirty in the morning, and we shall go by cab.”

We both drained our glasses before I left for home, and Holmes rang the bell for his dinner.


	2. Visiting the Victims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson visit the morgue to examine the unfortunate victims of a serial killer.

When I arrived at Baker Street in my cab at eight-thirty the following morning, I found Holmes already pacing the pavement and tapping the cobbles with his cane. He waited until the cab had pulled up before he gave the driver instructions and climbed in.  
“Well, Watson,” said he with an air of a boy about to receive a treat, “We’re off to the morgue.” He tapped his knees with the tips of his fingers in impatience.

I had woken late and due to my appointment with Holmes, had rushed from the house, missing breakfast. I was mourning this last point when Holmes said,  
“If you had gotten up earlier, you needn’t have missed your breakfast and rushed out.” I looked at him in amazement.  
“How did you know that?”  
“Elementary. The shoes you are wearing today look similar but one is older than the other. A man taking his time would not have made that error. I know you missed breakfast because I recognise that hungry look upon your face.” Holmes had got it right, and it all seemed absurdly simple after he had explained it, but I admired him all the same.

Presently we arrived at the morgue and were shown into a room with the four bodies inside. The coroner was present, and as we took our place at the side of the first body, the coroner pulled the sheet from her face.  
“Miss Veronica Howard,” said the coroner, “She was killed on the nineteenth of October. Her body was found the following morning. The wound she has here is the only wound on her body, and it was obviously fatal. She was seven and twenty years old.” Holmes bent down over the wound and examined it. Her throat had been slashed so deeply she had almost been decapitated. He continued to examine her as he asked the coroner,  
“Tell me, what state was she found in?”  
“She was found in Whitechapel, Mr Holmes, and her body was naked when it was discovered.” Holmes withdrew from the body and I saw a familiar expression upon his face. It was the look he had when he was expecting to hear something, and had heard it.

The next victim, the unfortunate widow Bess Jones, was revealed. Holmes again bent down over the body to examine the wound.  
“She was killed on the thirtieth of October, and her body was discovered at the same spot as the first victim. She was the eldest at three and thirty years old,” said the coroner. Bess Jones’ wound was a deep gash in her chest, above her heart. It was clearly the cause of death, either through the wound penetrating to her heart or blood loss. Holmes drew back from the body once he examined the wound.

We next saw the body of Mary Bannatyne, who was one and thirty. She too had been found in the same spot, and like Bess Jones, had a chest wound. Mary Bannatyne had been murdered on the eleventh of November. Holmes examined the wound before he motioned the coroner to pull the sheet up once more, so we could see the last victim.

Janet Hall was the youngest victim, being a mere seventeen, and her death was the bloodiest. I had great difficulty in stifling a gasp of horror. It was a ghastly sight.

“Miss Hall received thirty wounds. It is almost impossible to tell which wound was the cause of death. She was killed on the twenty-third of November, and again found in the same spot. I can give you the papers I wrote on the bodies, Mr Holmes.” Holmes, who was already examining the body with great interest, said,  
“Give them to my colleague, Doctor Watson. At the moment I am occupied with these wounds.” The coroner handed a briefcase to me and we both watched Holmes. After a short while, he motioned for the coroner to pull the sheet back over the body. We then left for Baker Street.

Once we returned to No.221B, Holmes buried himself in the contents of the briefcase whilst I lit my pipe and waited. As I have mentioned before, Sherlock Holmes was tidy in his dress, though domestically he was terribly untidy, and before me was further proof. When he was finished reading a sheet of paper he found useless, his method of discarding it was simply to fling it onto the floor. Soon, he had papers lying all over the room.

I watched him in anticipation. Even in his old age, with his ash-grey hair, Holmes displayed that remarkable energy to which I have often alluded. His face still looked much younger than mine, with very few lines marring his visage unless his brows were furrowed in concentration, as they were at that moment. As he discarded the last piece of paper, the clock struck one and he leapt from his chair.  
“Would you care to take a walk, Watson? We ought to get some exercise.”  
“Certainly,” I replied, and we were off.

We walked through the streets, he swinging his cane and I observing his face. Holmes had an expression familiar to me – he was planning something.  
“Tell me, Watson,” said he, “Did you notice anything that connects the murders together?”  
“They were all found in precisely the same place,” I replied.  
“Exactly. They were also all women. The obvious things are sometimes important too, Watson, but we must also be on the look-out for the things that are not obvious – at least to the untrained eye. I suggest that you go home for now. Will you meet me tonight?”  
“Of course.”  
“Meet me at Baker Street at ten. We will go from there to Whitechapel. Bring your old revolver, Watson.”  
“I shall.”  
“Then, until tonight, adieu.”


	3. The Woman of Whitechapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson go to the scene of the crime. Will they prevent another murder from being committed?

I was at Baker Street as the clocks struck ten. Holmes climbed into the cab, and we were off.  
“Well, Watson, I trust you remembered to bring your revolver?”  
“Of course,” I replied.  
“I hope that we will not have need of it, but we must be careful. We are neither of us getting any younger, and I do not wish to endanger you as I did in ‘The Devil’s Foot’ case. That was sheer stupidity on my part, something to which I am not ordinarily accustomed.” His face darkened as he recalled how he almost succeeded in killing us both in the midst of a murder case. I decided to draw his mind away from it, and asked,  
“Why are we going to Whitechapel tonight?” I saw from the change of expression on his face that he was recalled instantly to the present case.  
“Oh, Watson!” he exclaimed, “I must admit I had rather forgotten to tell you. As you already know, the victims were found in the same spot. However, I realised that each victim was murdered precisely twelve days apart, and so today is the twelfth day since Janet Hall was murdered. No doubt there will be another attempt tonight. After I parted from you earlier, I met with Inspector Williams. He knew of my reputation and readily agreed to assist me in this. Tonight, there will be hidden policemen in the area to catch the culprit when he appears.”  
“That is marvellous, Holmes.”  
“A criminal often returns to the scene of crimes, my old friend.”

When we arrived, we were greeted by a burly, red-haired man. Holmes shook his hand.   
“Inspector Williams, this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.”  
“How do you do?” I asked, as I shook his hand.  
“I’m well, thank you. This is a bad business. I only hope that we discover the truth of the matter.”  
“Whatever the truth is, I shall uncover it,” said Holmes.

We hid ourselves behind a pile of crates, but still had a clear view of the street. It was dark, although there was one lamp in the street.

Shortly after one-thirty in the morning, we saw a couple approach in the distance. Holmes was completely alert as he watched the couple. They stopped under the street-lamp, and at first it seemed that the man was leaning in to kiss his sweetheart when we suddenly spotted a flash of silver. Holmes immediately leapt from our hiding place a split second before the lady screamed; instantly the policemen who had been hiding in the darkness appeared. The man fled the scene as they gave chase, and they all vanished into the night.

Holmes had already sprinted to the lady, who had collapsed on the ground in a faint.  
“Watson, we must get her to Baker Street immediately,” he said as he drew a flask of brandy from inside his coat, with the intention of bringing her round.  
“I shall get a cab,” said Williams. Holmes looked at the ground around us, and spotted a silver knife. He used a handkerchief to pick it up, before depositing it in his pocket.

We eventually found ourselves at 221B Baker Street again. I gave the young lady a glass of brandy to steady her nerves. Williams eventually arrived at Baker Street.  
“Well, did you catch him?” asked Holmes.  
“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but he slipped through our grip. The others say it was like he simply vanished into thin air.” Holmes looked very grave.  
“Williams,” said he, “This may have been our only chance to catch him. How likely is it that he shall strike there again? We have disrupted his pattern now, and he may murder again at any time.”  
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Williams with a guilty look on his face.  
“I suspected as much,” Holmes muttered. He held up the silver knife.  
“He dropped this at the scene of the crime. As you see, it has a small amount of blood upon it, a result of that little arm wound which he has given our young lady friend. This was a costly knife, with a small sapphire set in the hilt. There is an inscription too upon the blade – ‘J Sinclair’. It is either his own knife or he acquired it in another way.” He put the knife on the desk.

Holmes bent down towards the lady, who appeared to be recovering from the shock.  
“Miss, I know that tonight you have received a great shock, but you are safe now. I am Sherlock Holmes, and with me is my friend Doctor Watson, and Inspector Williams. Please tell us who you are and everything that happened tonight.” The lady looked around at all three of us. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of blue, and her lips trembled as she spoke.  
“My name is Ailidh Campbell,” said she in a Lowland Scots accent, “I was in London to visit my spinster aunt. Three nights ago at a dance I met a man who introduced himself as Mr James Sinclair. His skin was sallow, and his eyes were slate-grey, with pitch black hair. I did notice that he wore old-fashioned clothing, though for the most part I thought him attractive. I saw him again the next night after the dance, and again last night. He asked me if I would join him on a late walk tonight. I said yes; you know the rest, Mr Holmes.”  
“Did Mr Sinclair talk very much about himself?”  
“Very little. He mentioned something about his father being a lord, and made mention of a seat. I forget the name.”  
“Thank you, Miss Campbell. I think if you leave now, Inspector Williams will assign you protection.”  
“Thank you, sir,” said she, before she left the room with the Inspector.

“Watson, it is very late now. I suggest that you stay for the night, and then go home after we breakfast.”  
“Thank you, Holmes. I certainly don’t wish to wake up my wife at this hour.”  
“Perhaps it is just as well that there is a bed still in your old room. Goodnight, Watson.”  
“Goodnight, Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, welcome to my "A Study in Sherlock." When I write Sherlock Holmes fanfic, the version of Holmes I imagine is the one portrayed by Jeremy Brett in the "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" that ran in the UK between 1984 and 1994. To me, the late Jeremy Brett is the ultimate Holmes. This fanfiction does however follow the chronology of the books, and is set in the early 1920s (the series does go on past 1920), the time period in which Sherlock Holmes had retired and lived mainly in Sussex.


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